Today's poem is by Kyle Dargan
Letter Home No. 3
Is apple butter as simple
as its name suggests, Mama?
If so, why is it sought after
as though it were a scarce salve
for the tasteless tongue?
Twenty-five miles per hour, I drove
through the battlefields where
blue and gray bled-almost tears.
The piled stone walls, the rolling
openness. There was nothing
gray rebels could have hid behind
save another trembling body
or another ginned-up body,
while the round bullet feared not a soul.
At least that's how I imagine it.
There are only graves here, spires,
limestone hunks with bronze scabs
of history and grass
the color of spoiled regret.
And "Lincoln Square" is actually
a circle. Abe remains misunderstood.
Copyright © 2010 Kyle Dargan All rights reserved
from Logorrhea Dementia
The University of Georgia Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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